Drowning
by VickyVicarious
Summary: "He doesn't see her going under." Emma is the one who fell in the water but Killian thinks he's the one drowning. [Neverland Captain Swan]


Written for **nmpsr1989**'s **prompt:** Emma's been emotionally strong throughout their time in Neverland until something drastic happens (bonus points if she almost drowns) that makes her breakdown. It's the first time Hook sees her cry and it hits him harder than he expected.

* * *

He doesn't see her going under. He's looking ahead, leading the way carefully over the rocks that provide a slippery stepping stone bridge across the river, and Killian does not see her going under.

He hears it happen, though. There's a _splosh_ and then nothing, nothing, nothing, he turns around and she's gone.

Instantly he's cursing, yanking off the satchel that holds their supplies and tossing it towards the bank, already diving in after her because this is too close to the sea, the mermaids swim up this far sometimes just to prey on people trying to cross the river, bloody _Neverland_ –

It's not a mermaid. Killian manages to be relieved by that for all of three seconds until he sees just how limp she is, red spreading into the water from her head, the current already pulling her away. He swims after her, catching her roughly in his arms, and tugs her towards the shore without care for his hook ripping her clothes in the process. The worst thing anyone can do is to bleed into the water, it only takes a moment for the fish to come after you – he gets her pulled up onto the sand after what seems like far too long a time. The surface of the water is visibly rippling behind them and he curses wetly, catching his hook around her ankle and just _dragging_ her up towards the tree line. He's being anything but gentle but she isn't awake to protest, and as soon as they get far enough from the water, Killian falls to his knees and rolls her over onto her back.

There's a cut on her forehead and it's bleeding profusely, and sand is all over her face, but Killian's more concerned that she isn't breathing. He shakes her, starts to press against her chest, once twice three times, four and on, muttering her name, "Swan, come on love, don't do this, Emma, wake up sweetheart breathe _Emma_…"

She wakes just as he's leaning down to press his mouth over hers: spews river water all over his face, in fact. Killian might be offended but it's not like he isn't wet enough already, and he has to admit it's a very fitting move for Swan. In any case, she's choking, coughing and sputtering and coming back to life right in front of him, which is enough to be concerned with for now.

He supports her back as she sits up, still hacking, and takes a few deep breaths of his own. Leaving his hook bracing her back, Killian tugs a scarf free from one of his pockets. It's as waterlogged as the rest of his clothes, which will surely be a bloody pleasure to trudge around in later, but at least it does the job of wiping the grit and blood off her face, for the most part.

She winces when he scrubs the fabric over the injury on her temple, and speaks her first words since her near-death: "_Shit_, ow."

The grin that puts on Killian's face is unexpectedly giddy. He finishes cleaning the wound as much as possible (no rum to waste today), then lowers his hand. Instantly, it starts oozing again, but at least the flow has slowed. The sight of her bleeding still chases the smile right off his lips.

"And what the bloody hell was that?" Killian snaps.

Emma coughs again: a wet, rough sound. She winces and rubs at her throat, wipes her mouth, and finally looks up at him. Water clings to her eyelashes, trembling with every blink. Her face is still pale.

"Sorry," she rasps. "I slipped."

The simplicity of it makes him laugh. He sits back on his heels, runs his hand through his wet hair – ignoring the shake in his fingers, projecting nonchalance. That's all it takes. A wet rock, a single misstep; she hit her head, even if there hadn't been anything eager to eat her lurking in the river it wouldn't have mattered. She nearly drowned. She nearly _died_, and for such a simple reason.

Emma doesn't seem nearly as struck by this unhappy knowledge as Killian feels (down to the very _bones_ he feels it and hates that he does). She's already clumsily knotting his scarf around her forehead in a makeshift bandage, wringing out her clothes a little and stumbling to her feet.

"We should get going," she says, wringing out her hair before moving on to her clothes. She pulls a face at the long slice his hook's taken out of her shirt – it's ripped almost completely in two and just barely hanging on. "Really, Hook?"

"Price of the daring rescue, darling," Killian leers halfheartedly, shoving himself to his feet as well. His leather pants are already uncomfortable, but he doesn't quite trust that they'll be left alone by the wildlife long enough to take them off and let them dry. Assuming Emma would even let him in the first place, which he doubts.

"Ugh," she says, grumpily attempting to tie the pieces of fabric back together. The effort does rather more harm than good as she only succeeds in lengthening the rip further. Killian watches with great interest – is that _lace?_

She notices his interest and promptly gives up, crossing her hands over her chest. "Forget it, where's the bag? I have an extra in there."

Taking that as his cue, Killian begins to pick his way back along the bank. They did at least make it to the other side of the river, but they've washed quite a ways down from where they meant to be. Most likely they will not be able to rendezvous with their companions tonight as they'd planned, but he'll save that information until later. He isn't looking forward to her reaction to the news that they will have to spend the night alone together… Well, he _is_, but not just yet.

"Hook! Hey!" Emma stomps after him, catching his arm. She looks dizzy, dripping, _painfully_ alive and he's surprised to feel real anger towards her suddenly. "Where are you going?"

With a sneer, he rips free of her grasp. If only it were so easy. "Well, sweetheart, your little _slip_ took us quite a ways downriver. I don't know where the bag is: I tossed it at the bank before diving in after you, but I was a bit hurried at the time and it just as easily may have reached the shore or sunk. You may just have to resign yourself to your current attire."

She gasps, but not in anger as he'd expect. Killian wants her to be angry, suddenly _wants _ her to argue back so that he can feel justified in _yelling_ at her, shaking her by the shoulders and shouting for her to bloody _look where she's walking_, she nearly died. She nearly died, damn her.

Emma does not shout back, however. Her gasp is a wounded, innocent thing, her eyes wide and terrified for a moment. "The bag is gone?"

The urgency to that question is unexpected, and obviously unrelated to clothing. Killian's eyes narrow; he slows his speech, carefully observing her reaction to his words: "Most likely. Even if it did not fall in the water, something will have smelled the rations and torn it apart looking for them. "

Emma isn't subtle about it: she _breaks_.

Her face crumples and her hands clench at her sides. She shakes her head slowly, jaw clenching tight, but he can see the tears welling up in her eyes. She sniffs suddenly, and swallows hard, taking a deep shaky breath.

"I – give me a minute," she whispers, turning away, bringing her hands up to wipe at her face. Her shoulders are _trembling_; her voice so small and sad. "My… head hurts, just…"

This is not about head pain any more than it's about missing clothing. Killian takes a step towards her, too surprised to react any other way. "Swan? Are you–?"

"I'm fine!" Emma snaps. But she looks so _weak_, nearly killed by a bloody stepping stone, crying over a lost bag. They've been in Neverland for a week and she's already faced down mermaids, monsters, the Lost Boys themselves. She's practiced the sword and the bow and her magic, and followed his orders to help sail the _Jolly Roger_ without complaint or question. She's kept her poker face even when they found the torn remains of Henry's jacket with blood on the hem. She's been firm and strong and determined, _we __**will**__ find him, we __**will **__save him_, she's pulled everyone else along with the sheer force of her love for her son. She's been brilliant, amazing, the strongest woman Killian has ever seen.

Of course she's crying. He wants to laugh at himself for even being startled: from almost the moment they first met he's recognized how much pressure this woman is under – years of it, stocked up and building, building… It hasn't ever been a question of _if_, but simply _what_ would eventually cause her to break down. He has to admit he never expected it to the probable loss of a bag of supplies but – _she bloody slipped _– sometimes it's the little things that pack the most punch.

The little things, like the way she swipes her hand down her face and turns back to him, lips tight and eyes wet. Emma meets his gaze dead on, doesn't shrink back even though her jaw is quivering and that one small act is the bravest Killian has ever seen.

"_Emma_," he finds himself saying, voice ripped out of his throat without any conscious deliberation. He steps forward and gathers her into his arms, and she's wet and cold and not resisting, and he reaches up to hold her head against his shoulder, twisting his fingers into her thick wet hair. She's not resisting but she's still so stiff and he can't stand this feeling, his heart is _aching_ for this foolish woman – "Emma, trust me."

Slowly, ever so slowly, her stance relaxes. She sags forward into him, and Killian can feel a hot tear land on his neck. She takes one last, ragged breath – and then she's _sobbing_, messily, her entire body shaking with the force of it, her hands gripping into his coat, weeping loud and broken and beautiful, beautiful.

"His picture's in there," she hiccups into him, voice collapsing around the words. Killian squeezes his eyes shut and pulls her closer. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, against her wet hair: a hard, uncompromising sort of kiss. It hurts his lips, he's pressing them against her so hard.

He wants to talk to her. He wants to tell her that they will find the picture, not to cry. Not ever to cry. He wants to tell her to cry as long as she wants. He wants to tell her that he will always hold her when she cries; he wants to tell her that he will always hold her regardless. He wants to tell her why he came back. That she's beautiful, and brave, and _bloody brilliant_, that she'd make an excellent pirate. That she doesn't deserve any of this, much less the burden of being everyone else's rock. He wants to tell her that she deserves much better than _him_ but somehow she has him anyway, he won't ever escape her, he's drowning, does she know he couldn't breathe until she started to again, she must know.

He wants to tell her that a woman's tears never used to move him. Call him callous; he never cared. But Emma can't keep crying, he feels a physical ache at the way she's sobbing against him.

(He wants to tell her that he is honored by her trust. Perhaps it is just the convenient timing of an inevitable breakdown but he wants to tell her what it means to him, how grateful he is that she will weep in his arms over those of her own parents.)

Killian doesn't say a word. Emma sobs herself out in his arms, long minutes until she's down to just the occasional sniffle and then finally they're standing in complete silence but for the noises of the forest around them.

She pulls back. He lets her go.

"Let's get moving," Emma says after a moment, voice hoarse. Their eyes meet and an understanding is reached: they will never mention this again. She will never thank him, and he will never use this moment of weakness against her.

"After you," Killian says, gesturing upriver. Emma shakes her head and pulls her hair back, dark damp strands dragging reluctantly along her neck. Killian has a sudden desperate longing to kiss that neck – just to kiss it, nothing more, an almost innocent urge and all the more fearsome for that. He's beginning to realize just how far he's sunk already; he's not drowning in her but long since drowned.

"We'll go together," Emma says. Her voice is still raw but there's a smile to it (a small, private smile).

They trudge up the riverbank, sodden and side by side.


End file.
